


Some Debts Can Never Be Repaid

by harsassypotters



Series: Merlin fics! [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode: s04e01-02 The Darkest Hour, Gen, Human Sacrifice, Hurt Merlin, Illness, Magic Revealed, Major Character Injury, Merlin dies a lot, Merlin!whump, Merlin's Magic Revealed, No Beta, Not that he'd ever admit it, Sacrifice, Sickfic, Temporary Character Death, The Darkest Hour, Whump, but what else is new, i had a bunch of feelings and had nowhere to put them but this fic, it annoys arthur a lot, merlin has the survival instincts of a squirrel, we die like mergwen's potential
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:41:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27128720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harsassypotters/pseuds/harsassypotters
Summary: The Dorocha was only the beginning.***Merlin was supposed to be riding back to Camelot with Lancelot. Merlin was supposed to be safe. Which is why Arthur can't quite comprehend it when Merlin appears at the Isle of the Blessed just as Arthur is readying himself for sacrifice, blasts Arthur out of the way, and walks through the veil between the worlds.
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Merlin fics! [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2053980
Comments: 50
Kudos: 249





	1. Chapter 1

_How will I ever repay you?_

It’s the only thing Arthur can think as he clutches Merlin’s limp body to his chest. Merlin’s skin is so cold it almost seems to scald Arthur’s hands, and his brittle, icy hair pokes the underside of Arthur’s chin, but he doesn’t let go, doesn’t think he can let go. When Merlin had thrown himself freely into the ghostly arms of the Dorocha, a warmth had stolen from the world, a flame had been extinguished, and Arthur thinks he will cling to Merlin’s body like this forever and ever, calling and begging and pleading for Merlin to return.

He can still feel Merlin’s hands ghosting on his skin, pulling him away from the Dorocha, jumping into it in his stead. Arthur’s armor weighs against him like an anchor, and he can’t help but think that it must have slowed him somehow, enough to give Merlin time to push him back. He itches to strip it off, to toss it away, to leave the path of a sword to the hollow space in his chest where a heart once was unobstructed. Because Merlin has left the land of the living, and Arthur wants to follow him now, so that they are never parted.

But he must wait. Wait until he can get to the Veil, wait until he can sacrifice himself to close it. Merlin gave up his life so that Arthur would have a few more milli-seconds to get away, and he will not waste it.

And they can be together again.

Merlin’s body is a solid weight in his arms, pressing into Arthur’s chest, lanky limbs leaving a rough imprint in his chainmail. The knights are standing in a semi-circle around him silently, heads bowed in a final testament to Merlin’s legacy, but Arthur ignores them. He knows he has to let go of Merlin eventually, will have to go face the cold, damp world without Merlin, a steady smile and a cheeky comment always at the ready, at his side, but not yet. Right now, he only wants to tighten his arms around Merlin, gently burying his manservant’s head into the crook of Arthur’s neck and stroking the nape of his hair.

They will be together again, soon. Together, together, together.

He never did appreciate Merlin enough, did he? Looking over him, past him, never believing a word he said. And now he’s gone, just a dead weight in Arthur’s arms.

But Arthur can fix it. They will be together again, and Arthur will throw himself at Merlin’s feet and beg for forgiveness.

Does it hurt, dying? Memories of Merlin throwing himself into the Dorocha, eyes squeezed shut, teeth gritted, arms splayed out, flashes in Arthur’s mind. It doesn’t matter. Dying could feel like being flogged and Arthur would still sacrifice himself. To save Camelot. And to be with Merlin.

A steady pressure builds against Arthur’s chest. At first he thinks it’s his heart, swelling and swelling until it’s ready to burst. But he realizes it’s not coming from the inside.

It’s coming from the outside.

Which can only mean one thing.

Arthur wrenches Merlin away from him, holding him at arm’s length. The knights stir, perplexed, but Arthur doesn’t spare them a thought, his eyes busy roving over Merlin, and yes, yes, he sees it. Merlin sucking in a small, painfully raspy breath, his chest rising infinitesimally, his eyes fluttering.

There is a short, tentative silence, where the air seems to be as frozen as Merlin’s limbs are, and then everything explodes.

Arthur barely has time to blink before Gwaine has roughly shoved him out of the way, landing on his knees beside Merlin to press his hands against Merlin’s chest, pushing up down up down up down. Lancelot leans forward and connects his lips with Merlin’s, forcibly pushing air into his friend’s chest. Arthur and Elyan come together and fumble with the flints in their pockets, hastily trying to light a fire, and Arthur, deliriously, remembers Merlin’s affinity for the task and thinks that if Merlin makes it out of this alive, Arthur will give him a position in court that consists of only lighting fires.

Except that won’t be possible, will it, because Arthur is going to sacrifice himself and leave Merlin?

For a second, Arthur is fully consumed by a selfish wish that Merlin will die. That they can be united in the next life, whatever that is.

But the feeling is gone as quick as it comes, and Arthur wants to dig his nails into his arm and drag them down his skin for even thinking that. Merlin--perfect, funny, impudent, willing to sacrifice himself for anyone Merlin--deserves to live. Deserves it more than anyone Arthur could ever think of.

Once they finally get a fire going and drag Merlin to it, placing him so close to the flames that it’s a miracle he doesn’t bodily catch on fire, there’s a rush among the knights and Arthur to rip their cloaks off and wrap it around Merlin’s immobile body. Arthur’s the one to fasten them on, letting his hands stray to Merlin’s face when he’s done, touching the frigid skin for what might be the last time.

Merlin shudders slightly, leaning into the touch, and Arthur leaves his hand there for hours and hours. Even as Merlin’s breathing momentarily stops multiple times, even as Gwaine has to lunge forward and push down on his chest again. It’s the least he can do, and it helps keep him together, stops him from breaking down into a sobbing mess.

Until Merlin finally, somehow, miraculously begins to shiver, the ice on his face melting, his fingers twitching. A feral monster of worry that Arthur didn’t know was wrapped around his heart unfurls. Letting the sobs he was holding back wrack his body without a care for who sees, he pulls Merlin into his arms, enveloping him in his warmth. The chattering of Merlin’s teeth rings in his ear, and Arthur only pulls him tighter, tears leaking out of his eyes.

He doesn’t ask how this is possible, how Merlin survived when hundreds, perhaps thousands, did not. Because this is Merlin, the one who had strutted into Camelot and began breaking every rule possible since day one, and if anyone could do this, it is Merlin.

“Arthur,” Merlin murmures into his ear, his hands fumbling clumsily for the front of Arthur’s armor. Arthur catches it and places it over his heart, though Merlin has no hope of hearing it over all the layers of chainmail.

“I’m here, Merlin,” Arthur whispers back, “I’m here, I promise, you’re safe, you’re alright.” His heart is splintering, from hope or sorrow he can’t tell. Because he is leaving Merlin, he’s leaving.

For the first time, Arthur allows himself to entertain the possibility of sending someone else as a sacrifice. The knights would be more than happy to do it. Arthur would only need to pick one.

He throws the thought out of his head quickly, his face twisting, feeling absolutely disgusted with himself. He is the king, the one that took the vows to protect Camelot with all his might, the one that the knights look to with utmost loyalty. He is the one that must do this.

“No,” Merlin says, “Arthur. I need _Arthur._ ”

“Merlin, what--?” He pulls Merlin from him, and only now sees the clouded eyes staring into nothing, the barely-lucid gaze.

“He’s delusional, sire,” Leon says from where he has been standing at a respectful distance with the rest of the knights, clearly having sensed something. Frowns of worry mar his brow, and Arthur wants to scream and wail, because Leon has no right to be anxious, not when Merlin probably won’t even remember the last conversation they have.

But he only nods, because he is a king, and that is what kings do. They nod, they move on, they do not lose their sanity over lowly servants. Arthur cannot comprehend doing the latter, so he has to suffice with the first two.

“Alright,” he breathes quietly to Merlin, his hands gently stroking his manservant’s hair. “Arthur’s not...available, but maybe if you tell me what’s wrong, I can tell him.”

Merlin pauses, seeming to consider this, and for one horrible moment Arthur thinks Merlin will fall silent, will never give Arthur a memory to hold close to him as he takes his last breath near the Veil. But then he continues, “Arthur...trying to...trying--”

“Trying to do what, Merlin?”

“Trying to...to sacrifice himself, the idiot.” Merlin pauses to cough, a horribly raspy sound. Arthur rubs his back, trying to push as much warmth into Merlin’s skin as he can. “Need to...stop him.” As if an idea suddenly occurs to him, Merlin grapples desperately for the fastenings of Arthur’s armor. “Promise me you’ll…you’ll stop him?”

“Yes,” Arthur whispers hoarsely, not quite knowing what he’s agreeing to. “Yes, I will.” And when Merlin still seems uneasy, he adds, “I promise.”

Merlin seems satisfied at that, going limp in Arthur’s arms as he slips off into a fitful sleep. Arthur lays him gently onto the makeshift bed they’ve made for him out of the cloaks, feeling like the worst sort of coward as he gently unclenches the fingers Merlin’s wrapped around his wrist. He doesn’t know why he does that, just that he can’t bear Merlin’s trust in him.

Arthur, for his part, really does try to keep his promise to Merlin. “The man saved my life,” he argues to Leon, who looks like he doesn’t know whether to pity Arthur or want to club him upside the head, “I won’t allow him to die. I need to go with him to Camelot.” If he tells himself that he’s just repaying a debt, doing what any moderately honorable man would do, then he’ll be able to live with the guilt. But the fact that he, in that moment, is willing to extend his kingdom’s suffering if it means he can be with Merlin for a little while longer, hangs in the air like fog.

Except Lancelot comes forward, offering to escort Merlin. At first, the part of Arthur that never really grew out of his childhood belief that when he was king and Uther could no longer order him about, he could have as many friends as he wanted, objects. But as he gazes to the forest, where the once-green trees have grown ashen and the grass is wilting, the truth hits him like an iron spear to the heart: he is king, and his petty feelings do not matter.

Uther was right in that regard, at least. Even if your heart feels like it’s splintering, like it’s unraveling and laying itself bare, you must plow on.

The kingdom comes first. And besides, Merlin deserves to live in a world without the Dorocha.

“This is my fault and I’m sorry,” Arthur says as he straps Merlin to the horse, his eyes looking everywhere but Merlin’s. It’s cowardly, he knows that, but what use is bravery when his world is falling apart, wallpaper peeling away to reveal the dull reality of what life will be like now?

“Take me with you,” Merlin croaks, and Arthur wants to scream at him to stop, please stop being so loyal, please stop making me doubt my decisions more than I already am. “Please.”

“You would die, Merlin.”

“But you don’t understand,” he insists, and Arthur wants to laugh and cry and hug Merlin all at the same time. “Please, Arthur.”

Arthur forces his lips into a smile, the last one of his Merlin will ever see. “Do you ever do as you’re told?”

“I have to come with you,” and it’s not a statement, it’s a plea, sharp and plaintive and echoing in the air, somehow, like the tolling of a thousand church bells.

“Merlin--”

“We need to leave,” Lancelot cuts in. His tone isn’t impatient, and his eyes are wide and meaningful. _If you don’t let go of him now, Arthur, you never will._

Throat clogged, Arthur squeezes Merlin’s shoulder, trying to direct as much feeling and love and friendship as he can into that gentle movement. Their bond had never been a normal one, much too strong and much too filled with inside jokes and secret nudges and meaningful glances to be the regular one between a master and his manservant, and Arthur wants to make sure Merlin feels all those unsaid words as much as Arthur is.

Merlin and Lancelot leave much too quickly, and as Arthur watches them dwindle down to specks on the horizon, he can only feel two things: warm, golden relief that Merlin is fine--because if anyone can take care of him, it’s Lancelot, who seems to spend half his time making sure Gwaine doesn’t do something stupid enough to get himself killed. And cold, bone-chilling guilt, because he is leaving Merlin alone in the world now, and if anyone knows anything about loneliness, it’s Arthur. But he is king, and he must be the one to make the sacrifice to close the Veil.

Except Merlin couldn’t possibly care less about classes. So when Arthur is at the Isle of the Blessed, preparing himself for sacrifice, Merlin barges in, blasting Arthur out of the way and yelling at the Cailleach to take him instead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an update? in my fic? it's more likely than you think.

For the most part, the Isle of the Blessed has not been touched since Uther first laid siege on it twenty-five years ago in the Great Purge. Arthur imagines the half-fortress, half-castle must have looked beautiful, once, but now it’s cracked and crumbling, broken pieces of stone littering the ground wherever he and the knights walk.

And they walk quite a lot. The Isle may not be particularly big, but the walls and alleys twist and turn, and with the low-hanging fog, more than one of his knights trip on an inconspicuous rock or walk straight into one of the stone slabs that seem to be everywhere. Arthur doesn’t know what direction they’re going in, exactly, but Gaius described the veil between the worlds as a dark portal, and he’s pretty sure they’ll recognize it when they come across it.

He doesn’t know if he’s imagining it or not, but he thinks he can feel the magic in the air. It’s tense, like a thin string pulled too taut. Or maybe his nerves are just jangled; he is a man walking towards his death, after all, though he can’t seem to spare much thought to it. All he can think about is Merlin.

It’s a strange feeling, being without his manservant. Arthur had never noticed how close they had gotten, how utterly dependent he was on Merlin’s muttered profanities and dimpled smiles, until Merlin was gone. Now he feels like he’s missing a limb he wasn’t aware he had, like he missed a step on a staircase in the dark.

He keeps expecting to see a flash of red neckerchief in the corner of his eye, keeps glancing around the corners to see if Merlin will come bounding around them, tired but somehow fully healed. Because that’s Merlin, somehow able to survive despite all the odds and bounce back up no matter what life throws at him. 

But when they round the next corner, they come across not Merlin, but a flock (or is it pack? Arthur honestly doesn’t know) of wyverns. They’re black and skeletal, and if Arthur squints just right, he can imagine it’s the Dorocha he’s swinging his sword at and drawing blood from. 

But it’s not, and even as the wyverns fly away, shrieking in anger and fear, the anchor over his heart stays. 

He doesn’t know if the wyverns’ cries served as a warning or if the Isle is just largely uninhabited, but they make their way through the rest of it without stumbling across any other nests of magical beasts until they finally come across a large courtyard.

All the breath seems to have been sucked from Arthur’s chest. The Knights, following behind him, freeze in their tracks. 

No one needs to ask if this is the right place; it’s all too obvious. There is a black veil in the center of the courtyard, though it’s not like any veil Arthur has ever seen before. It seems to be a rip in the very air itself, fluttering with hypnotic motions, and it draws in the wind of the courtyard like a moth to a flame. Arthur can feel his breath being tugged to it, as if death is drawing him in with false promises. 

There is a plinth a few yards in front of it, made of darker stone than the castle and carved with elaborate runes. Dried blood still speckles it, and thinking about where it came from makes Arthur’s stomach roil. There will be more blood on there, soon, and it will have come from him.

“So,” he says, feeling a bit hysterical, “this is it, then. This is it.” 

“Are you sure about this, sire?” It’s Leon, no surprise, speaking as though he is trying to talk sense into a frightened animal. And isn’t that, for all his pride, what Arthur is? Just a wounded animal, trying to find his way through a world where his father is deteriorating, his sister hates him, and his only friend could be, for all he knows, dead. “I would be glad to take your place.”

“So would I,” Gwaine agrees, and this is a surprise. Arthur turns to him, curiosity piqued.

Gwaine looks somber, shadows under his eyes, face paler than usual. He had prattled on about everything and nothing the whole way here, and Arthur would have been annoyed if he hadn’t noticed the way Gwaine’s hands were clenched so tightly around the reins of his horse his knuckles turned snow-white, or the way he laughed too loudly for too long, as if he was trying to drown out the thoughts in his head.

Arthur’s familiar with the feeling. All he can seem to think about is Merlin pale, dying, dead.

Elyan and Percival nod fervently, but Arthur ignores them. He’s already entertained the thought of sending someone in his stead so he could stay with Merlin, and now he’s past it. He is king, and his feelings are not of importance. His actions are. 

Arthur turns away, exhaling slowly. “Thank you,” he says, surprised to find that he means it with every fiber of his being. A warmth is building up in his throat and behind his eyes: he knows that they do not do this for Camelot, but for him. “Thank you, truly. But no. I have to be the one to do this. For Camelot.”

And for Merlin. The words are not said aloud, but he knows everyone feels them.

Leon looks like he wants to interrupt, but Arthur plows on, horrified to find his voice shaking. “Just...all of you, do me a favor, alright? Take care of Merlin.” Merlin, Merlin, Merlin. “For me.”

“I promise,” Gwaine says, his voice surprisingly forceful, and in the short moment that their eyes meet, Arthur knows he means it. There is a fierce, burning loyalty in his eyes, and Arthur is too busy feeling relieved to be jealous. At least when he’s gone, Merlin won’t be entirely alone.

Gwaine’ll probably be a way better friend than Arthur ever was, anyway.

Percival and Elyan echo it, but Leon still seems uncertain. “Please, sire, reconsider--”

“You think I haven’t?” Arthur says. “You think I haven’t thought of sending one of you, any of you, in my place? Believe me, I have, but I can’t do it. It needs to be me, Leon.”

“Camelot needs you--”

“I don’t do it for Camelot!” Arthur snaps, and whatever patience there was is gone, leaving behind ragged pain. “I wish I did, it would make all of this so much easier, but I don’t. Not entirely, anyway.”

There is a stunned silence, broken by Percival’s quiet, husky voice. “Then what do you do it for, sire?”

He thinks of lying, but what’s the point? He’s going to die. He’s literally inches from it. Whatever pride and duty he had obsessed over as a young man feels so far away now, part of another universe. “Merlin. I do it for Merlin. It may sound horrible--hell, it probably is horrible--, but I do it just for him. I need to repay him. This is the only way I can.”

It’s not just the Dorocha, though he doesn’t need to say that. It’s a thank you for the years Merlin spent putting up with him through his tantrums and his surliness, for all the nudges and the sweets slipped into his hand during the dreadfully boring council meetings. Because even when Arthur was too busy with foreign dignitaries and impending wars and snottish princesses, Merlin was there like a sturdy rock, and Arthur refuses to overlook all he has done any longer.

It’s too bad he’ll never get to say it to Merlin’s face.

“So just tell him,” Arthur continues, his throat too tight and too scratchy, “tell him I said sorry. Tell him I said thank you.” Oh, and wasn’t Merlin always pestering him to do just that? He would’ve had a riot if he was here. “Tell him that, in my last moments, I was thinking of him.”

No one replies to that. They probably don’t know how to. Instead, they walk forward--one by one, Leon first-- and squeeze his shoulder, just like he did to Merlin, before retreating and standing in a semi-circle around the plinth. They will stand vigil, Arthur knows, until he is only a rotting body and the sun has dried his blood onto the stone of the plinth.

It’s all Arthur could have ever asked for.

Gulping roughly, he turns to the Veil and calls, “Cailleach.”

One moment the space in front of the Veil is empty; the next, a woman appears, though she isn’t like any woman Arthur has ever seen before. Her face is so pale it’s practically painful to look at, and there are blood-red smudges under her eyes. Wrinkles crease her skin, her white hair is brittle, and she is dressed in a cloak so black and scabby that she looks like, well, death itself. 

That was probably the whole point. 

She has a staff, too, her skeletal fingers curled around it possessively. It’s all Arthur can do not to shiver at the sight of it. 

“Arthur Pendragon,” the Cailleach says slowly, measuringly, as if tasting each word on her lips. With the dark backdrop of the Veil glowing behind her, she seems like an ancient deity, the demon or angel of death. “It is not often we have visitors.”

Arthur has to force his voice not to shake. “Put an end to this,” he says. “I demand you heal the tear between the worlds.” Whole towns frozen, corpses with ice on their faces. “Innocent people are dying.”

“Oh, I know.” The Cailleach’s mouth parts into a grin, revealing yellow, rotten teeth. “But it is not I who created this horror. Why, pray tell, should I be the one to stop it?”

Arthur hates her, then, hates her more than he could have ever imagined hating someone. She is tearing lives apart, is tearing his life apart, and he wants to tear her apart in return.

He breathes deeply, trying to calm his nerves. He has a debt to repay. A kingdom to save. He cannot afford to be careless. “I know what you want.”

“Do you?” the Cailleach purs, fingers drumming on her staff. “And are you willing to let me have it?”

Think of Merlin, Arthur. Think of him and everything will be alright. “I am prepared to pay whatever price is necessary.”

The Cailleach’s eyes dance as she motions Arthur forward, and Arthur obeys, stumbling towards her like a wooden puppet on a string. His head is filled with a strange buzzing, his ears feel stuffed with cotton, and all he can focus on is the veil, a dark, empty abyss. His feet take him forward, but he’s not sure he’s controlling them anymore. 

And then, suddenly, time lurches to a halt. 

He doesn’t think that as an expression or a metaphor; time literally stops, the wind standing still and Arthur’s limbs refusing to move. He can’t twist his head to look at the Knights, but based on the lack of surprised cries, he can only guess that the same thing happened to them. The only thing moving anymore is the Veil, still fluttering despite the lack of wind, and the Cailleach, her eyes darting around frantically.

And then Arthur and the Knights are blasted backwards, slamming against various walls surrounding the courtyard. Pain sings through Arthur’s body and warm blood pools at the back of his head, but other than that, he doesn’t seem to be harmed, and the spell that froze time is lifted, allowing him to suck in a few grateful breaths.

“Who’s there?” the Cailleach calls, and Arthur thinks she might actually sound afraid. Perverse satisfaction jolts through him. “I demand, in the name of the Old Religion, that you show yourself!”

A figure detaches from the shadows, walking towards the Cailleach on steady feet. The mist covers him, letting only the faint outline of a lanky body be seen, and Arthur only has a moment to think that it looks vaguely familiar before the man steps into the moonlight and all the breath leaves Arthur’s lungs.

Merlin stands proudly before the Cailleach, his hair blowing in the wind, moonlight streaming down and making his already pale skin look bone-white. Not as light as the Cailleach’s, but close. His posture is rigid, his hands curled into fists at his sides, and there is a steely determination in his eyes. 

No. No. It cannot be. Merlin is supposed to be on the verge of death, not here, in this cursed, cursed place. 

“Merlin!” Gwaine yells, sounding absolutely wretched. “What are you doing here?” He peels himself off the wall and runs forward, hands wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sword. Arthur follows suit, heart hammering in his chest, and so do all the other Knights.

He will get this idiot out of here if it’s the last thing he does. 

Merlin turns to Gwaine, and there seems to be no surprise on his face, just resignation. “I’m sorry,” he says, with so much levity that it doesn’t make sense until Merlin raises his hand and blasts them all backwards again.

The gold in his eyes stands out in the night like the light of a thousand fires.

All the air is gone from Arthur’s lungs. He’s pretty sure he’s in pain, but he can barely feel it.

Invisible ropes seem to slither along Arthur’s arms, keeping him trapped against the wall. But he doesn’t think he would be able to move anyway. 

This is a game. A trick. A hallucination. A curse. It has to be, has to, has to, has to.

Except it all makes so much sense, doesn’t it? How Merlin survived the Dorocha. How he can step away from skirmishes with bandits without a single scratch. How everything seems to always work out in the end, some inexplicable luck following them around.

But it’s not luck. It’s magic.

If Arthur thought his world was breaking before, it’s nothing compared to this. At least then he had a solution. Now he has nothing.

He’s pretty sure just up and dying would have been a lot simpler than whatever this is. 

“I’m sorry,” Merlin repeats, snapping his fingers. All the Knights slump down, unconscious, leaving only him, Arthur, and the Cailleach.

“Merlin,” Arthur gasps, voice ragged and panting. “Sorcerer. Merlin. Sorcerer. You’re a sorcerer.” 

“Yes,” Merlin says, voice hollow. He’s staring straight ahead, at the Cailleach, whose gaze is darting between them with thinly veiled interest. “I was born with it. And now I’ll die with it.” 

“What?” The realization of what Merlin’s about to do comes like a punch to the gut. “No--no, Merlin, you can’t sacrifice yourself--Merlin, listen to me!”

But Merlin just walks towards the Cailleach, until he’s standing right next to the plinth. Arthur fights and thrashes against his invisible restraints, but it’s no good. Where is Lancelot? Wasn’t he supposed to be looking after Merlin?

The Cailleach face is thrown into a flurry of emotion, surpassing fear and shock to settle on excitement. “So, Emrys,” she crows, her eyes roving over Merlin hungrily, “you chose to challenge me after all. Will you give yourself to the spirits to save your prince?”

“It is my destiny.” There is no emotion to Merlin’s voice as he says it, and if Arthur was terrified before, it’s nothing compared to what he is feeling now. 

“Perhaps. But your time among men is not over, Emrys. There is still much for you to do here, in the realm of the mortals.”

“No, Merlin!” Arthur screams. “If this is some--if this is some way of apologizing--or, or making up for your magic, I promise you, I don’t care! I couldn’t care less!” It’s a lie, he does care, but he’s willing to say whatever it takes to stop Merlin from sacrificing himself. 

Merlin ignores him. “It is my choice to make,” he tells the Cailleach. “You cannot refuse the sacrifice of a creature of the Old Religion.” Creature of the Old Religion? What? Arthur doesn’t care, he can think about it later, he just needs to stop Merlin from sacrificing himself. He struggles more, but he’s powerless, and he hates his weakness with a passion. “It is against the laws of magic.”

She grins. “My, my, look at you, Emrys. I wasn’t aware one had much time for studying whilst being under the boot of Uther Pendragon.” She raises her staff and thumps it on the ground a few times. It’s oddly reminiscent of the pounding in his own head. Arthur can’t see straight anymore, everything dissolving into a blur of desperation in his eyes. “But no matter. You are right.”

“Arthur?” Merlin says softly, and Arthur stops his struggling in favor of hanging onto every word Merlin has to say. “Just...just remember, when all this is over, that magic can be good. I’ve had magic since the day I was born, and I’ve used it for you. Only for you.” His voice wavers slightly, and he drags his sleeve along his face, as though sopping up tears. “Tell Lancelot I’m sorry. Don’t blame him.”

“No, Merlin!” Arthur’s sobbing freely now, fat tears rolling down his face. He tugs fruitlessly at the restraints. “No, no, no, no, no, no!”

Taking in a deep breath, Merlin reaches out a hand, and his eyes flash gold. Leon’s sword flies into his grip, and he wraps his hands around the hilt tightly.

“Please, Merlin!”

Merlin climbs onto the plinth, ignoring Arthur’s pleas. He stares at the sword in his hand like he’s never seen one before and asks the Cailleach, “I suppose it’s too much to hope you’ll do it for me?”

She smirks.

“No,” Merlin sighs, “I didn’t think so.” He lays himself flat on the plinth, back on the stone, face pointed towards the sky. The moonlight makes him look like a dead body.

Which he will soon be.

Arthur has never been either poetic or metaphorical, but he swears he can feel his heart tearing itself apart, muscles and ventricles peeling themselves apart. It hurts so, so much.

“Please, Merlin,” Arthur sobs. “Please. I can’t do it without you. Any of it.” 

"You will, Arthur. You'll have to." Merlin raises the sword, one pale arm sticking up into the air, and touches the tip of it to his chest. The Cailleach straightens, eyes widening with excitement. 

Arthur makes a promise, in that moment, that he will hunt her down. He will cut her until she drowns in her own blood and then figure out a way to bring her back to life just so he can do it again. He will scratch out her eyes, he will break her bones until she is screaming for mercy. He will avenge Merlin. Merlin, who keeps saving and saving and saving Arthur.

Merlin takes in what must be his last breath. Arthur’s sobs aren’t human anymore. The Cailleach cackles.

How is Arthur supposed to make up for any of this? How?

Merlin draws his arm back, waits for a second, and plunges it deep into his chest.

Rubies pour from his chest and onto the plinth. Arthur may or may not be screaming, he doesn't know. The world is over, the world has ended.

Arthur knows the exact moment Merlin stops breathing. It is the moment the invisible restraints fall away, the moment the Cailleach disappears in a gust of wind and the rip in the air sews itself together.

When the Knights awaken hours later, they find Arthur holding a dead Merlin to his chest, blood seeping across his armor, screaming Merlin’s name over and over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took three weeks! what can i say...writer's block and procrastination does not make a good combo.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you've had action! you've had death! now get ready for a whole lot of dialogue, angst, and snuggling with dead bodies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy thanksgiving, y'all!
> 
> "i should update sooner," i say as i don't update sooner.

They have to haul Merlin’s limp body off the plinth and onto a horse, and it’s so oddly reminiscent of the time after the Dorocha that Arthur’s hands shake as he fixes Merlin into place on the saddle, making sure he’s even and that he can’t fall off.

It’s hard to do. There’s still a gaping wound in his chest, and Arthur flinches so violently when he looks at it that he nearly drops Merlin. Blood rims the wound, red like the roses Uther used to place before his mother’s tomb, though it’s stopped flowing now.

There’s more on Arthur’s armor, from where he had clutched Merlin to his chest for hours upon hours, begging and pleading for him to return. When the Knights had awoken, Percival had had to forcibly pull Arthur from Merlin, and the feeling of Merlin’s fingers slipping out of his grip made him feel like a traitor of the worst kind. 

He can’t bring himself to wash it off, though they are literally surrounded by water. It would feel like erasing the last of Merlin: the bravery, the smiles, the cheeky winks. The lies.

Never taking his hands off Merlin, Arthur climbs on behind him, and Merlin’s lifeless body sags against his chest as he gathers the reins in his hand. If he thought riding with Merlin would make him feel better, he was sorely mistaken: his heart is pulsing and throbbing from the contact, feeling like it’s ready to burst. 

He keeps waiting for Merlin to magically pop back to life like he did after the Dorocha. But there’s nothing—not a finger twitches, not an eyelid flutters.

Arthur wants to break. Arthur wants to cry. Instead, Arthur yells at the Knights to clear out of the area, his voice coming out authoritative and in-control. 

Old Arthur would have been proud. New Arthur wants to dig his fingers into his neck and never speak again. 

He tightens his arms around Merlin, hopelessly tender to a thing that is supposed to be hated.

As he and the Knights ride away from the Isle of the Blessed without a single glance back, the sun finally begins to rise, and the horizon is blood red.

He heard, from the tales the older knights would swap around the armory like wares at a market, that a red dawn meant a stormy day.

He wonders, then, what a red dawn means when your life has already gone through the worst storm it could possibly go through. 

  
  
  
  


They don’t bother cutting through the Tunnels of Andor—there’s no point in risking the Wilddeoren, especially with a dead body to cart around—instead traveling around the mountains.

The journey is even worse than the one towards the Isle of the Blessed, if that was possible. No one speaks, the chirping of the birds and the clomping of the horses’ hooves the only sound to fill Arthur’s head. He had selfishly hoped Gwaine would have prattled on, but he’s quiet and reserved, his head bowed down and mouth pursed as if fighting back tears. Or recriminations.

Arthur doesn’t ask, but he knows Gwaine blames him. That’s okay. He blames himself too.

Lancelot brings up the rear. Somberness is hardly a new aspect in him, but he’s not sure he’s seen it at this level from  _ anyone _ : he turns the reins in his hand over and over, not making eye contact with anyone or anything to the point that it’s a miracle his horse hasn’t tripped on anything yet.

Half an hour after the other knights had awoken and found Merlin, Lancelot had come sprinting in, boots pounding on the rough stone, screaming for Merlin, only to drop to his knees when he realised it was too late.

As it turns out, Lancelot had been planning to sacrifice himself to the veil in Merlin’s stead, but was keeping mum about it until the time was right. And Merlin had seemed to buy it—

—until he knocked Lancelot unconscious just before they reached the Isle of the Blessed, and made the rest of the journey himself.

Arthur isn’t surprised. Merlin was always more observant than he let on. 

He supposes it’s a necessary trait, if one wished to avoid execution.

Oh,  _ God _ .

Merlin’s as limp as one of Morgana’s old straw dolls, his limbs cold and rubbery against Arthur’s chainmail. He had put his chin on the crown of Merlin’s head, wondering if that would help, but it had just made tears prickle in his eyes, painful as nails. 

The silence allows his imagination to run away with itself, and he’s already demanded three times that they stop, because he  _ swears _ , he can  _ feel  _ Merlin’s heart beating, can see his arms move with more force than just an involuntary swing, can see his eyelashes flutter.

It never turns out to be true. He should feel guilty, giving others false hope like that, but he doesn’t. He’s desperate.

It feels like a millennia until the sun finishes crossing the sky and begins to set and he and the knights are forced to stop at dark. His arms ache from supporting Merlin, but he quickly stomps the thought down. He has no right to complain about pain at this point. 

“What do I do with Merlin?” he asks. It’s the first word anyone’s spoken in hours, and it snaps through the air like an arrow. “I can’t just leave him on the horse…” It would be disrespectful.

Though as a sorcerer, is he even worthy of any respect Arthur shows him?

The thought is said in Uther’s voice. Nausea stirs inside Arthur.

“We could prop him up against a tree,” Elyan suggests. “I think he would’ve wanted that.”

Arthur nods, once, before sliding off the horse and manhandling Merlin down into his arms. 

Merlin’s already stiff, Arthur realizes with horror, though he should’ve expected that. He’s seen dead men after battle before, and it only takes twelve hours for the muscles of the body to harden. It’s been much longer than that since Merlin plunged the sword into his heart.

Arthur can’t get the image out of his head. Suddenly, the blood on his chainmail, turning brown and flaky, doesn’t seem like it’s preserving Merlin at all.

He carries Merlin bridal-style, one arm under his shoulders and one arm under his knees, to the nearest tree, setting his back against it. If Arthur squints just right, he can ignore the stark contrast of Merlin’s pale skin against the dark brown of the bark and pretend he’s just sleeping.

Dinner is a depressing affair, Percival shooting a couple of rabbits and Lancelot roasting them above the fire. They move in smooth tandem, helping each other without a second thought, having done this hundreds of times before they became knights. It makes Arthur miss Merlin so much it’s painful, like his heart is trying to beat right out of his chest. Merlin was his shadow, his friend, and now he’s gone.

He was also a sorcerer. A sorcerer who saved Camelot. 

Arthur forces his mouth to chew to avoid thinking about it, but it’s no good. It’s a good stew, by all means, but Arthur can’t help but turn it over in his mouth and find every single imperfection. Merlin’s stew was amazing and mouth-watering—except for that unfortunate incident where he used rat—, always perfectly seasoned. 

No one speaks for a long, long time, the cackling of the fire startlingly loud. No one mentions it, but everyone avoids looking at Merlin. 

Lancelot breaks the silence first, not looking away from where he’s adding another log to the fire. “We have to talk about it eventually, you know. It won’t just go away if we ignore it.”

“Ignore what?” Arthur asks, though he very well knows the answer.

Lancelot gives him a pointed look. “His  _ magic _ , Arthur.” 

“What’s there to talk about?” Arthur snaps, kicking a pebble with his boot. “He had magic.” The word sours in his mouth. “And now he’s dead. Talking about it doesn’t change what happened.”

“No, but it changes how we remember him,” Elyan points out. “I don’t think he did this to be remembered, but we can’t just cast him into the shadows. He died a hero’s death.”

“It’s not just the Veil, either,” Lancelot says, gaze smoldering. “He’s been saving a kingdom that would gladly burn him at the stake for years. And he’s never sought out any credit.”

Arthur had figured that out, of course. Merlin’s strange disappearances and what Arthur had chalked up to luck before now have the hint of magic, of whispered spells and golden eyes.

It makes him feel horribly guilty, that he’s never noticed before.

Still, his head snaps up. “ _ You  _ knew? He told  _ you _ ?”

Lancelot glares. “He didn’t  _ tell  _ me anything, Arthur. I found out myself. The person who killed the griffin? Yeah, that wasn’t me. Merlin enchanted my lance, and it was kind of hard to miss all the blue, magical lights coming out of it.”

Arthur grits his teeth. “Yes, well—”

“I knew too, sire,” Leon says gently, eyes not leaving the last bit of rabbit meat in his hands. 

Arthur’s heart stills. Leon’s his First Knight, supposed to be loyal to him and only him, and yet he’s seen fit to keep this rather vital piece of information hidden. “When—”

“When we went to face off against the dragon,” he answers, voice so soft and deferential that Arthur wants to scream. “You were unconscious, as was everyone else—well, unconscious or dead—, and he must have thought I was too. He talked to the dragon, sire.”

“ _ Talked _ ?”

“In dragontongue, sire. And then in Albian. At first Merlin promised he was going to kill it, but the dragon told him he wouldn’t. That they were the last of each other’s kin, and Merlin wouldn’t be able to do it.” Leon shrugs, still turning the rabbit meat over in his hands. “It must have been right, because Merlin just prohibited it from ever returning to Camelot and sent it away.”

No. Leon must have been delirious at the time. Arthur guessed that Merlin had been the one to truly rid Camelot of the dragon, but he had thought Merlin must have  _ killed  _ him, not let him fly free. “The dragon is not alive.”

“He is, Arthur.” Lancelot’s eyes are hard. “I saw him. When Merlin and I were running from the Dorocha, he summoned the dragon to conjure flames. Without him, I would be dead.”

“So...he’s a dragonlord, then.” Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, massaging his temples. He feels anger, cool and refreshing after all this guilt, rise up inside of him like a tide. “Then why the  _ hell _ didn’t he send the dragon away before— _ oh _ .”

Memories, flooding back, so old that the edges are fuzzy and confusing. Merlin acting strange the entire trip to Balinor’s cave. Merlin sobbing freely over the man’s dead body, looking like the world had ended. Gaius saying the dragonlord ability could only be passed onto the son with the father’s death.

_ Oh _ . 

Arthur’s voice is suddenly small, quiet. His heart twists painfully. “But I—but I told him not to cry.” A lump grows in his throat.

He can’t even find it in himself to fault Merlin for sparing the dragon. The last of his kin, the dragon had said. How many times has Arthur excused his own father of his crimes and sins? Abandoning Merlin when he had drunk poison for Arthur, trying to murder a ten-year-old boy, not informing Morgana of her true parentage?

No one asks what Arthur means. He almost wishes they would. Arthur feels dirty, contaminated from all the lies and Merlin’s heroics, like his skin is two sizes too small. 

He turns on Leon. “And did it never occur to you, even once, to maybe, just maybe,  _ tell  _ me?”   
  


“Of course it did, sire.” There’s a surprising bite to Leon’s tone. “More times than you could ever know. But Merlin was only saving you. If he’s playing a game, it’s a long one, and a bad one. He could have killed you or taken your will away at any time. You’re practically king now, and he still hasn’t. I didn’t want you to turn against him.”

“You think I would do that?”

“What do you think you’re doing right now?” Gwaine barks, speaking up for the first time. His eyes are bloodshot and haggard. “Merlin’s literally saved the entire kingdom, is  _ dead _ because of his decision, and you’re still angry at him. He stabbed himself, Arthur. Right through the heart, based on the wound. And you’re still throwing a pity party for yourself. What would you have done if any of us—or even if he himself—told you?”

“It’s not  _ like  _ that,” Arthur insists, not quite knowing what he’s arguing in defense of. “It’s just—why would he  _ do  _ any of that? Why would he help me?” No one helps him without a reason to. Whether it be him being the Crown Prince of Camelot, or something else. Even Agravaine sees him only as an echo of his mother, a ghost Arthur will never know and never be, not with his father trying to mold him into the perfect heir. 

What would Uther say if he found out a sorcerer—a  _ sorcerer _ , who has every single reason in the world to want to tear Arthur from limb to bloody limb—had saved Camelot?

“Because he’s a good friend, Arthur. Unbelievably, stupidly loyal. And if you can’t see that, you’re more of a fool than even your father was.”

And that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it? Arthur remembers the night after Morgana’s betrayal and her take-over of Camelot: Merlin sitting with him, trying to get him to eat some rat stew, even when Morgause would have welcomed his magic with open arms. He must have been powerful, to have snatched Arthur from the brink of death so many different times, and he could have been sleeping in Arthur’s own bedchambers, the new crown prince of Camelot, if only he had turned his back on Arthur.

He doesn’t know how to repay Merlin. Merlin’s been saving him and Camelot with his magic, feeding Arthur victories and being stripped of credit for his own, and Arthur doesn’t know how to make up for it. Imagining, even for a moment, that Merlin betrayed him makes him feel so much better. 

His skin feels hot and itchy, like he doesn’t belong in it. Like he just wants to fling himself at Merlin and pound on his chest and wake him up, never mind that it’s been hours. Never mind that Arthur probably doesn’t deserve Merlin waking up, anyway.

“Well,” Leon says, “I think we better get to sleep. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.” Arthur shoots him a grateful look, but Leon’s back is already turned, setting out his bedroll.

The others follow suit, though Arthur stays right where he is. So does Percival. 

“I don’t think you’re nearly as angry with him as you try to convince yourself, sire,” he says softly. “You’re grieving, and that’s normal, but you’re not angry.”

Arthur draws something on the dirt with his boot before realizing it’s a merlin bird and quickly scratching it out. “What makes you say that?”

“When we woke up,” he replies, “you were screaming the same thing, over and over and over. It took Leon a whole minute to even get you to hear him. Don’t you remember?”

“Yes, I do,” Arthur says. “Merlin’s name, wasn’t it?”

Percival shakes his head. “No, actually. Well, a bit, but mostly something else.” He hesitates.

Arthur turns to him. “What?”

“Just…’I’m sorry’, again and again. And ‘it’s all my fault’.”

Arthur stills. The memories are rushing back to him now, cradling Merlin to his chest, squeezing his limp hand, apologizing for everything.

He clears his throat. “I was emotional.”

“Yes, you were, and there’s nothing wrong with that,” Percival says, his eyes crinkling up in the corners. “Just thought you should know. Anger doesn’t change or make up for anything. What’s done is done, and the best we can do is make peace with it. Trust me, I would know.” And with that, he gets up and walks over to where Gwaine is, as far from the fire as he can get without freezing to death, to stand watch.

Arthur waits for the others’ breathing to level out, not taking his eyes off Merlin the entire time. 

A man who is a sorcerer, though that doesn’t seem so drastic anymore. Because he had feelings: love, anger, impudence. A mother who worried for him. A father who died for him. A heart he stitched up and tied together even as it was threatening to break into pieces before facing off against the last of his kin. 

A friend who he would do anything for. A friend who is selfish, who can, even now, only think of the debts he’s found his way into. 

“You idiot,” Arthur huffs, though it’s so much more sad than teasing. He wonders if he will ever get to say anything related to Merlin without feeling his heart splinter ever again, and he bites on his lip to keep from crying out.

He walks across the clearing, leaning down next to Merlin and gathering him in his arms. He doesn’t bother getting his blanket—the chill inside him won’t be diffused with cloth. Besides, holding Merlin close to his chest, though his skin is waxy and cold, is a gift enough of its own, like there is some kind of love bleeding between the blood on Arthur’s chainmail and Merlin’s wound.

Everything seems so simple now. Just two bodies, huddling, one dead and the other wishing he was.

When Arthur wakes up, the era of having a friend, a man who understands him like nothing else, will be over. Not just because he needs to focus on being king, but because he doesn’t think he will ever trust anyone to ever get close to him again. 

Arthur is not worth it: he is just a drainage on time and resources and power and  _ life _ . First his mother, now Merlin. 

With that thought in mind, he wraps his arms around Merlin even tighter and goes to sleep, dreaming of black veils and angry, golden eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, well, well. just plonked a whole bunch of dialogue in there to shake things up.
> 
> does arthur make you want to cry or punch him in the face? tell me in the comments :)
> 
> does arthur's emotional dilemma make sense? like how he doesn't know how to pay merlin back for all the things he's done for him? bc no one else has ever really done anything nice for just arthur: it was always bc he was crown prince and they wanted to get closer to the throne through him. and due to uther pendragon's a+ parenting, he probably has the "i must be useful and productive or no one will ever love me" mentality. yeah i wanna explore these more in the next chapter, whenever THAT is.
> 
> my writing schedule is so weird. like. if i'm busy that day, i get really stressed about writing and end up not writing, and if i have absolutely nothing to do, i STILL don't write bc i've fallen into the endless spiral of boredom, which is...not great for writing inspiration. *shrug*
> 
> HAPPY THANKSGIVING. wear your masks, be safe. eat pie and don't die.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make me very, very happy :)


End file.
